


Frozen Hearts Born to Burn

by Buttercup_Bee



Series: The Stupid, The Proud [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cousin Incest, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fem!Jon, Female Jon Snow, Gen, Girl!Jon, R plus L equals J, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5252864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_Bee/pseuds/Buttercup_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lysanna Snow is the bastard of Winterfell, a winged wolf sold to the heir of Highgarden, Willas Tyrell. She is to be wedded, bedded, and tucked away from the Baratheon King's growing paranoia. However, there is little peace to be spared, and it is severed when her father is set in chains and the Starks raise a sword in declaration of war. Amidst the oncoming winter and the tragedy of battle, Lysanna learns the true meaning of Fire and Blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Betrothal Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, again, I rewrote this beast for the last time. I have to say I'm extremely happy with the improvement and I hope you all are too! Thank you all so much for waiting as long as you did, it means a lot to me!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

“Father, you asked for me?” Willas Tyrell glances about the room, his father at the far end with wine at hand, leaning into the comfort of his well plushed chair. The man seems to be reviewing a letter, a densely scrawled piece of ruined scroll.  
  
At end of the chamber is his grandmother, taking him off guard with her presence. So well hidden even in plain sight. The thorny woman blinks at him, the blank face slowly curling into a cheap smile.  
  
She taps at the chair beside her, eyeing him cautiously as Willas takes to making his way over. With an ill sodden limp it feels like forever, it always does, and it takes a bit of him to keep from sighing his discomfort. However, he manages to find his space and sit down across from the plump man.  
  
He waits, setting his cane down beside him as his grandmother offers a cup of tea. He might prefer the wine but he knows better than to deny her. Taking the cup in hand he sneaks a small sip all the while tapping the delicate fixture. Willas is curious to see how long it takes his father to recognize his eldest.  
  
It must be quite the shocking news to have elipsed the lord Tyrell of all sense of those around him. Willas is certain it will be himself to lose patience as the man reads over the letter again. As if it hadn’t made sense the first time around. How much longer could this possibly take?  
  
However, without surprise, it is his grandmother who loses her temper first. “Mace, would you just tell him already, or should I?” She clips, setting her tea down with a snap.  
  
It seemingly thrusts his poor father from whatever thoughts plagued him. Setting the parchment down on his lap he gawks at his son, eyes wide and gleaming.  
  
“It is time you’ve wed.” The sentence does not come around the first time, all sense of what he had just declared passing right through Willas. It’s only when he reiterates it in mind does he understand.  
  
His lord father found him a bride? He is wonderstruck just as he is bewildered. Neither take priority for neither can outweigh the other.  
  
Willas’ hand goes to squeeze, as he usually does with his cane, before realizing he is merely fisting the air. Looking down at his cane he is tempted to hold it, just for the comfort he has grown accustomed to using it for.  
  
He is cut short when his father adds, while lifting the parchment to eye level, “The North wishes an alliance with the South, and proffers a daughter of Winter to the son of Spring.” Mace Tyrell can barely contain the excitement in his voice.  
  
The North wants an alliance with Highgarden, with a Tyrell? The proposition is other worldly, he has been led to believe that the North finds the South unsuitable, that they would rather keep to themselves and their traditions despite their liege lady being a Tully.  
  
Willas thinks of the old Gods, of their beliefs, of how different that world is to his own. And they wish to send one of their own to a place where the discriminatory outlooks towards their old ways would be placed upon the girl?  
  
It is then he feels his blood freeze, cold as any winter that may approach. Is he to wed a child? The lady Catelyn Stark has birthed five children and only two are female. A young maiden of three and ten and another is of the ripe age of nine.  
  
His lips twist at the sour thought. He could not wed a child, no matter the alliance, it did not sit right with him. It never would. The ground of his gut churns in a sickening manner.  
  
“Which one?” Willas sucks in a breath after the question leaves him. Mace sets the letter down once more, watching him in confusion.  
  
“Must you sound so dreadful when asking?” He lifts a brow up upon asking.  
  
Willas finally reaches down to clutch his cane. “My lord, which one am I to wed, the lady Sansa Stark or the child, Arya Stark?” He tries again. He knows little of the daughters in the North, only that one resembles the Tully look and the other Stark. And of course their names.  
  
Beside him his grandmother chuckles, clasping his arm with a grip unknown to Willas, as she watches Mace settle the scroll on the table rather than his lap.  
  
“Neither.” Willas, befuddled, tilts his head to the side. The clutch on his cane light with a relief he never knew himself capable of.  
  
He can feel his grandmother’s attention on him when he says “What?”  
  
“You are to wed Lysanna Stark.” Willas doesn’t know how to comprehend what Mace is saying. Lysanna Stark? The only Lysanna he has ever heard of had been a bastard, the daughter of Eddard Stark, born of war and lust.  
  
In what Margaery told him, she is Lysanna Snow, the Rose of Winterfell. And perhaps now the daughter of the cold wasteland. If his father had meant what he said, that means the girl has been made a Stark. For what reason he does not know.  
  
Whether it has relation to the Kings whereabouts might be worth looking into, for it is odd and quite sudden for a Snow of seven and ten years to be made a Stark the moment a King arrives. But that is not the matter of the current situation. His impending marriage is. To a Northern girl of all things.  
  
Slowly, Willas takes hold of the wine canter and pours himself a cup. His father nor his grandmother do anything to stop him, thankfully. Willas takes a generous sip with the hope it might allow this all to sink in. It does not, much to his regret.  
  
She is still young, more so than he thought he might marry into, but not young enough to disgust him. Which he finds little comfort in. He thought his family had finally agreed to Arianne Martell, considering her attempts to have him at her arm.  
  
And she felt the better option over some girl who once held the name Snow, for all the Gods why did they choose her? The heir to Sunspear drafted away because the North played a small piece for once?  
  
It made absolutely no sense. None whatsoever. Did the girl even hold lands, a title rather than Stark, anything? He would not mind the prospect of the Stark girl if it did not confuse him so. And his grandmother appears to want this as well- has his mother even heard of the news? Would she allow it if she did?  
  
A small part of him wants the Dornish maid from Sunspear, who smells of spice and oranges. To have Oberyn as a good-brother and share tales from the sandy wastes of Dorne to the greenlands of his homeland. At least he would feel comfortable with her, Willas has met her once before, and the girl he is supposed to wed is someone he hardly ever heard of.  
  
“Why her?” Willas questions as calmly as he can. “You have waited a long time to have the perfect marriage arranged, I do not see how this is the one you have longed for.”  
  
It is his grandmother who speaks this time. “She is the beloved daughter of the lord Eddard Stark, a man who leads the North, more than half of Westeros.” She leans into the back her chair, neither looking at him or his father. “The letter claims she is now owner of land and riches, with this marriage comes a great deal, even soldiers, Northern bred.”  
  
Willas thinks this surprises him most of all. Not only is she an owner of property on her lonesome, but she came with enough gold to earn his grandmother’s interest, and men? Willas takes a moment to review all that he has just learned.  
  
The process is not an easy one. How in the seven hells did a bastard child have such value, enough to grasp the Queen of Thorns? Where did the lord gather such a promising amount to appease lords and ladies such as his father and grandmother?  
  
He knows his family, they would not agree to a low offer, or one of agreeance to others. The profit must be high, above average.  
  
Especially for an heir such as himself, the future of Highgarden, the eldest son of Mace Tyrell and Alerie Hightower. Many a proposition has been made in his honor, in the hopes he or his father might choose a daughter of a small house, or perhaps large.  
  
This is why he was certain his mother and father wished an alliance with Arianne Martell. Yet the North has swooped in with a once bastard with enough gold, titles, lands, and men to seemingly have his grandmother sing.  
  
Willas might try and get comfortable in his seat, however he fears he may never find it, not in a conversation such as this. Perhaps he should not have leaned on Arianne Martell, instead kept his mind open for others; he doubts that a once bastard would have surprised him less if he had kept his mind open.  
  
“So I am to wed this Lysanna Stark?” Willas does his best not to show his disappointment. He knows this girl might be kind, lovely, perhaps even beautiful. But as thought before, he truly had believed his wife would be the princess of Dorne.  
  
Lady Tyrell nods. “Yes.” She reaches, taking his hand in her own with a squeeze. “Do not worry Willas, many claim her beauty surpasses all of those she comes across, there were daring men before yourself asking for her hand long before she became a Stark.” She assures. “Her being a bastard once before will not interfere with our good name.”  
  
“And she is young and fertile.” Mace adds. “A lovely maiden ripe for the picking.” Willas gapes at his father, at the crude comment he had just made. Olenna nods, taking a brief sip of wine.  
  
Willas sighs, exasperated. “Very well, when is she to arrive?”  
  
The smile he receives from both do not bode well with his bundled nerves. “In a moons time.” Willas frowns.  
  
“When was this arrangement made?” To come at such short notice, he does not think he can sink with his thoughts, not when she moves as he speaks.  
  
Olenna stands, sweeping at her skirts. “A week ago.” Before he can speak his annoyance aloud of not being warned earlier she cuts him off. “You better study the North boy, before she arrives, lest you wish this marriage to stumble before it can walk.” Willas scowls, it may be small, but it is there. Turning at his mouth and littering within his hue.  
  
“Yes, of course grandmother.” Standing with a grunt he bows towards his father. “Am I excused, I believe I am to ready myself for the lady Stark’s arrival.” Mace nods, and before he can say anything more Willas is sure to take his leave.  
  
He needs some air. A walk. To dissect all this information he hadn’t ever expected. By the Gods, a drink would do now that he thinks about it. He would rather wait to pend on Lysanna Stark, otherwise he might go mad.

* * *

  
Ned frowns, glancing over the acceptance he recently received two days prior. It should make him feel better as a whole, knowing the great house Tyrell has willingly undertook his daughter into their family. Instead he fears for her, hopes for her, Lysanna had understood quite well.  
  
Had kept her silence, listened, and accepted as a simple lady does, but he could see it in her eyes. Just as he could Lyanna’s when her betrothal to Robert had been made. She was seething.  
  
And to be quite blunt any other girl would be joyous over such news, but the child had grown up believing she would marry into the North, that she would stay home. Instead she is travelling half-way across the country to wed a man she knows little of. Only his name and what it means.  
  
Ned might feel guilty if he did not know what this meant. She would be safe there, content he hopes, and closer to himself in Kingslanding. He only feels relief. Knowing to an extent of her whereabouts, of whom makes contact with her, it gives him peace.  
  
He can keep an eye on both Robert and Lysanna. Naturally, he would not have worried over the prospect, but with how his childhood friend watches Lysanna with an intensity he would rather keep rooted than allow to grow. He couldn’t take any chances. If Ned remained in the North while Robert returned back South he would be unable to help her.  
  
And while he could have kept a quiet life for Lysanna here in the North he knows that she deserves a marriage worthy of her name. The cold is no place for a beauty such as her to wilt away. Lyanna would have wanted this, he thinks, knowing that while Lysanna had expected a Northern husband she disliked all those who had been suggested. Even LittleJon Umber.  
  
It is a great help knowing just how possessive the house Tyrell is to those of value, as well. Robert would not dare cross a Stark turned Tyrell for the sake of lust and reminiscence. The house is reaching higher than ever before, being dangerous in their own right.  
  
Ned has also heard great things of Willas Tyrell, that he is kind, gentle, and brave. Exactly what he would want for any one of his daughters. Ned is certain Lysanna will find a home in him and his family. The mere thought of Lysanna being hurt, tarnished, or even found out sends him into a panic.  
  
It is enough that he drown in this facade, but it is made worse when he thinks of Robert finding out who Lysanna really is. Ned sets the letter down, pinching the bridge of his nose. He has satisfied house Tyrell and that’s all that matters. As long as they are blinded by Lysanna’s wealth they will not search into where she received it.  
  
While they are power hungry he knows they are not stupid, they will watch where they step and keep their pieces at hand. It is why he sends Lysanna to them, for if they found her true name, they would keep it to themselves until the right moment arrived. As they always do. It is a bargain he knows might not last but it is all he has.  
  
Sighing out he leans further into his fingers. He has never truly played this game, not since the war ended, but he has made a move and he fears the outcome- yet he cannot, for the sake of his sanity and family, he does not. Therefore he takes a deep breath, stands, and makes his way to his chamber.  
  
Lysanna would be safe from the unknown, just as he promised Lyanna so long ago. With the Tyrell’s, as powerful as they are, she would remain untouched. He swears his life on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of every chapter (If needed), whether I described what Lya's looks like or not, I will have a link below just so you guys have an idea. And because I am weak- sometimes there will be gifs!


	2. Daughter of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysanna thinks of her impending marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

The Heart Tree is a blistering radiance within the lackluster landscape of the North. Made of bone and blood, sweeping at the snow with grasping hands the leaves all seem to sing their own melody amidst the wind.  
  
Some may find it eerie, uncomfortable, however Lysanna finds it to summon a great peace inside her. As if the Old Gods have found it in their power to speak what they know to her. To level their bleeding gaze with her own in assurance. Lysanna has always found it does as such since she was a child.  
  
Burrowing her face into her mantle Lysanna’s fingers skim the wolf beside her, while the others play with the chain about her neck. Both of which match the tree with a great semblance.  
  
That proffers a bit of comfort as well. Ghost is the North in all its glory, a wolf vicious and stoic, Lysanna can only hope she feels that way when she reaches South. And the chain, it is the only thing other than her pup that will connect her to this place.  
  
Father gave it to her when she first bled, claiming her mother would have wanted her to have it. The ridges indent the pads of her fingers, but she dares not think of the womb of whom she was birthed from. Only sadness comes to greet her when she does, as it does now.  
  
A deep frown curls around her full lips, eyes narrowing in remembrance, the sheer disbelief that swallowed her up when her lord father exclaimed as to why she would be leaving with him and the King’s men.  
  
Lysanna did not want to appear ungrateful, she is certain it took everything from her father to arrange such a betrothal between her, a once bastard, to the heir of Highgarden. Yet she had been led to believe she might wed another, here in the North, in her homeland.  
  
In fact, she had heard from lady Catelyn herself that the Umber’s were asking for her hand. That they wished a union between her and LittleJon Umber. Lysanna thinks she might have preferred it over some Southron man. LittleJon is Northern, from muscle, blood, and bone he is winter.  
  
He would have kept her close to home. To her family. Rather than drag her South to those who do not understand Northern customs. She would be forced to live a different life. Lysanna wishes she could say she should have expected this.  
  
But Lysanna has been a Snow for as long as she can remember, how could she have possibly predicted she’d be made a Stark? It is unreasonable in her opinion. Having been told she would never hold the name had been ingrained into her mind ever since she knew what it meant.  
  
Not from her father nor lady Catelyn, but the household as a whole told her not to give her hopes up. That life is no fairy tale to swoon upon. Theon had been the worst of the bunch, constantly rubbing her nose in it as if she were a simple dog and not the daughter of a wolf. At least the servants were kind enough to explain with care.  
  
They did not want her to be hurt by false hope. But Theon enjoyed it while he could. The only delight she felt when father had told her both of her new name and betrothal was the shock she know Theon would feel.  
  
The crunch of snow and leaves garners her attention. Breaking her from any string of thought that concerned this mess.  
  
“I knew I would find you here.” The familiar voice rings. Lysanna hums into the fur of her attire, the man coming to stand beside her. “Father sent me to tell you the party will be departing soon enough.”  
  
Lysanna nods with a hum, hiding her face from him. The biting frost nipped relentlessly at her cheeks, her nose numb, Lysanna did her best to keep both from freezing solid. She is curious as to how Robb doesn’t do the same.  
  
From the corner of her eye she peeks up at him, he does not keep from the cold, instead his shoulders rear broad just as is his scowl. The same he has worn since the night father alerted the rest of the family of what was to come for both Lysanna and Sansa.  
  
The news seemed to anger Robb, but he did not speak up. Merely drank away until he found the time to leave without being seen. Except Lysanna, of course, who had frowned upon his state. Sniffling in the winter winds Lysanna scrunches her nose.  
  
He still smells of wine, Lysanna realizes, which means he hasn’t stopped. With a sigh her fingers twist in Ghosts coat. “If you keep drinking as such you will turn into a drunk.” Lysanna scolds.  
  
Robb grunts. “I can stop when I wish, trust me.” He retorts. Lysanna looks to him, his gaze still leaden on the Heart Tree.  
  
Lysanna can feel a surge of annoyance spike up her back and before she can keep the words down she replies “Do you think his Grace thought the same?” Robb stiffens in that moment, still refusing to look at her, his mouth sealing into a thin line.  
  
When he does Lysanna shrinks. “I hope you never say such a thing to his men or him, even if he does seem to have fallen ill for you...” Robb strays, finally bringing his eyes to meet her own.  
  
Lysanna bites her lower lip, his too-blue eyes digging into her in a way she wished would forever be absent. “Please, do not mention it.” She urges. The mere thought of his Grace, the way he gawks at her, it makes her sick. And Robb’s stench as of current did not help in the least.  
  
She hated the scent of ale, beer, and wine. It was only worse when the King was nearby, smelling of it all, somehow it wafted off him the way it does in a brothel. Lifting her fingers from Ghost to twist into the skirts of her gown she exhales, watching as her breath dissipates into the air.  
  
There is a beat of silence between the two of them, where neither dare to speak up. Only the serene gusts of wind beat against the land while the two share the space. It is so quiet she can hear the scrapes of movements, how they tremble with the wind.  
  
Lysanna flinches when his fingers slowly come into contact with her own. Twitching nervously as they skim alongside her pinky, wrapping her up, until her hand is engulfed within his. Lysanna does not pull away as she should, instead she returns the squeeze he is quick to offer.  
  
Whether the action is for support or otherwise she does not care. Her heart pounds with the blaring silence and finally she speaks up. “You’ve gone to the Riverlands. Is it hot there?” Robb eyes her, despite Lysanna not returning his gaze.  
  
“No, not really.” He hums. Pulling Lysanna close to him her shoulder brushes against his arm, until she is held to him with no room to move. “I do think it will be warm where you are headed. The Reach is prized land, the harvests outshine Kingslanding I hear.” He utters. Lysanna, void of emotion, a defense she created for herself a long time ago, nods.  
  
However, she pends on the Reach, of its green fields and greener tree’s and something inside snaps. That place is not her home, so far away it simmers in the sun. It is where she will wilt away. Where her spirit will diminish- how could father not see that?  
  
Her palm tightens around his, fear finally making an appearance, her heart pitters as she sucks in a shaky breath. Robb frowns down at her. Lysanna hasn’t allowed any reaction nor emotion spill towards this impending marriage, has kept it locked inside in the hopes it would just leave. As most of her irritation does.  
  
It has been a week since the news became fact and she has not shed a tear. Not until now. It slips past her without regard. Her lower lip quivering in response. “Lysa?” Robb questions, voice so heartbreakingly soft she must lean her head into his shoulder. But she doesn’t.  
  
The two stand, a new distance pressing against them as a sob passes her lips. “I can’t.” She mutters, her voice breaking near end. “I can’t.” Robb clenches her hand with a bone breaking comfort.  
  
And in the distance she can hear Ghost whimper beneath her, mimicking her repose the only way the beast can. Lysanna knows the two are there for her, yet why does she feel so alone? How could she possibly feel this barren?  
  
As if she had been abandoned to the dead before she could live. Lysanna does not pay heed to her tremor, not until Robb sputters his concern and pulls her in. His hand leaving her and retreating to the back of her head. Her face burrowing into his chest where the stench is strongest. However, she cannot find it in herself to care at the moment.  
  
For she is a statue in the cold, collecting snow as she should.  
  
Snow. The title repeats until it holds no meaning. She is a Stark now and with it the cost of duty. Lysanna had an obligation to this family, that meant her maidenhead, her womb, the children she might birth for the man in the South.  
  
Lysanna quivers. She does not know him and she fears him. The Gods had a sick sense of humor to give her what she always wanted, and then curse her for even wanting it in the first place. Sucking in another sob Robb cards his fingers through her hair, calming her the best he could.  
  
The both of them are a call to arms, for she can feel his distaste for all this as well, they are alone yet together. And Lysanna wonders, will he save her, could he? Could Robb steal her away like the Wildlings do and keep her? Make her his own?  
  
But that is wrong. So very wrong and she pushes him away, wiping at her cheeks in distress. Robb goes to bring her back in but she retreats, shaking her head. “No.” She sweeps at her cloak.  
  
Robb ignores her, stepping forward with hesitation, wrapping his hand about the base of her neck. This is wrong, terribly wrong, she thought they agreed it would end. This was supposed to end. Lysanna cannot pull away however, as if his touch could falter any resolve she held.  
  
She should have left when he seeked her palm. In nature there was nothing wrong with the act, but knowing herself and him, their nature as siblings, she should not have been so foolish. His hot breath, foul in its own right, spans across her face.  
  
The smell unwelcome but the heat a compensation for the nipping cold she feels. His rough fingers curling around the thick of her hair, dragging her in, his eyes melding to her own. “You will leave soon.” He whispers. “Allow me this, please.” His thumb skims her lower lip and jaw, her body stiffening in response.  
  
“We promised each other no more.” She ushers, attempting weakly to push away. “Robb, we promised.” Lysanna pleads, her voice no more than a breaking point. She could not do this, not like this, not here before the Old Gods. It did not feel right.  
  
Yet she knows it never should have in the first place. Lysanna should have felt guilt or disgust rather than pleasure and need. Robb should have stopped, Lysanna should have pushed him away the first time it...It happened. She told herself she would be sent to Hell for this, that he would be sent there as well, that they were committing a sin. That never stopped them, did it? All those close nights, too close for comfort, too close to her maidenhead; _Too close._  
  
Robb has this sour look, unease ripping through her shoulders as he sighs. Even as he lugs her forward she knows he will not kiss her, not as he used to, rather his dry lips come into contact with her forehead.  
  
It’s brotherly almost, if it were not for the way he lingers, mouth never leaving her. Lysanna near tells him to stop, that this in itself is too dangerous now, however another beats her to it.  
  
“Lysanna.” A soft voice rings, clear as day, delicate as song. “Father wishes for us to part now.” Robb leaves with a growl, it is low, but Lysanna would be surprised if Sansa did not hear it. He longs for her, his hand outstretched for a second longer before he spins on his heel and charges after their sweet, young sister.  
  
She panics, giggling into the air as she spurns Lysanna to save her. Robb laughing as he voices his complaints, of how he will miss her and Arya with all his heart. Lysanna, for a shy moment, can smell sweetness in the air. Drafted in columns from the nearby blooming winter roses- but it is not the flora that is easing her nerves on this day.  
  
It is seeing the two, happy, prancing about as they used to. And it kills her to know she will be leaving it all soon. That she, a daughter of Winter, will be forced South for the rest of her life. Yes, it is deadly to even think of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, Lya and Robb already have something going on. It will be a pretty big part of the series so be prepared! Thank you all for reading, please let me know what you think!


	3. Bastard Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting, I hope you all enjoy the new chapter! I'd like to thank my dear friend @branstvrks for editing this hell piece! She is the true MVP!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

The gardens are a bright blaze, a golden halo illuminated over the delicate posies and viridescent pathways. The sky a clean path, blue and bright, it brings his eyes to a squint.

Willas watches on as his brothers spar not too far from his stance, wandering in thought, his hand clutching the cane tighter than need be. It has almost reached a month’s time, and it still feels as if it were just yesterday his father had alerted Willas of his betrothed.

Since then he has had trouble thinking, blending worry and annoyance into one and the same. Willas can hardly blame himself. He is to wed another he does not know. A woman he had been raised to ignore.

A bastard-born left to the wilds of the North, untouched and unheard of. He has yet to decipher how he feels about it all. Only that he is unnaturally angry. How is he to accept a girl he doesn’t understand?

Willas is well-aware of the fact many do this all the time. Wedded and bedded to strangers. He just has a hard time understanding such a simple task, how he had convinced himself he would marry another he does not know. Perhaps he is still just as foolish as he was as a green-boy?

It certainly felt like it. Honing his attention upon his younger brothers with a frown he pends on his intended. He might as well, despite her arrival soon to come. Willas prefers to get a feel for things before they surprise him.

So he imagines whom she might be, what her standards are, what she is like, what she believes is purpose and fallacy. What she looks like, even.

He has so little information to go on. Many claim she looks Dornish, others say Targaryen, however a great bound declare Northern. Targaryen is an odd way of putting it, but he supposes if her mother is from far away in the South, it only makes sense. It is not uncommon for women to carry such traits.

But if rumor is to be true, she might look that of Ashara Dayne. So perhaps Dornish? All that comes to mind is Arianne, a flush rises to his cheeks, and he exchanges Dorne for the North. She is pale there, dark hair and dark eyes.

Only it is all he can summon to his mind. No face, really, a mix of what he knows mayhaps. Random features mixed with what he can detail from passer by’s of the common folk.

The outside world is a blur as he attempts to think up his future wife, all but failing, and stuttering when Garlan whacks his training sword next to him. Willas glowers at his brother, tilting his head as he looks down.

Despite his limp, he is still the tallest of this family, and he intends to use it to his advantage whenever possible. Garlan merely shucks back with a boisterous grin. Loras stands far away, chuckling into his palm while Garlan raises his hands in surrender.

Willas takes the blade and returns it to it’s post before turning to his brothers, leaning against the fence he folds his arms. He may never mention it but he desperately misses sparring. The way a sword could cut through air, pierce wood and iron alike, it pains him to struggle with it now.

Now days, every once in awhile, if he is careful, he can stand on his leg. While the maester claimed it permanently damaged, he has been offered herbs that may help numb the pain, there may be hope. However he does not lean too much into that faith, knowing how long he has been like this, it is very unlikely.

Only in his armor has he been able to stand without his cane, the steel bearing a thick wall for his leg to balance with. Garlan marches towards him, a large smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

“He was thinking of his bride to be, Loras.” Garlan chimes, folding his arms as he tilts his head. Willas gawks in confusion for a moment. Had he blanked out again?

Loras shakes his head. A smirk sprawls across his lips as he swings his practice sword with a delicate round, the tip scraping at the dirt below. “I highly doubt it.” Loras retorts. Willas cocks his head at them. “He spends too much with Marg and mother to think of any women at all.”

“I am right here.” He knows they are messing with him. He knows not to give way to their little schemes. But he might as well entertain the two. They must be just as curious as he is. “And to the contrary, sharing time with mother and Marg does the exact opposite of your suggestion. All they speak about is the Stark girl, nothing else.” Willas grumbles.

Garlan snickers in reply, lifting a brow. Loras on the other hand looks as if he expected it either way, despite his commentary. Willas grips onto the fence, allowing the two to mutter to one another while Willas returns to his thoughts.

Though he doesn’t get very far before Loras speaks once again. “I think you worry too much.” Willas eyes his youngest sibling as he leaves the fenced area, planting his sword back from where it came.

Garlan nods in agreement as Loras continues. “I hear your wife to be is beautiful, and all you have done lately is mope about. Should you not be searching for gifts, planning how to greet her, mayhaps read about the North and their customs?”

Willas sighs. “I have read all there is to know of the North. Of nameless Gods, vows, and ‘honor’.” Rubbing his thumb along the fence he adds “None of it could possibly prepare me for a wife, Loras.” Willas clips.

Loras nods in understanding. “But you had to have known this would happen some day. You’re heir, not some boy in distress.”

Willas knew he would. Just not to the Northern girl. A _bastard_ Northern girl...

“He is right.” Garlan intervenes. “Try and get to know her before she arrives, send letters, make gifts, women love being attended to.”

Willas lifts both brows, creasing to the depth of his hairline he shakes his head. “And how am I supposed to send letters to a lady moving?” Garlan opens his mouth, shuts it, and folds his arms in thought.

Garlan then smiles, gleeful and full of cheer. “Give her a pup, you’re breed is nothing alike what they have, nor anywhere. Nothing could go wrong with that.” He acts as if he has found clarity for them all.

Willas would smile if he had not already thought of it. “She has no need for a pup. Rumor has it she is master to a Direwolf.” At this, Loras purses his lips in surprise and Garlan scowls at the ground in defeat. “And before you suggest a horse, she has that too. Lord Stark loves her, just as he does the others, no doubt she would have one of her own.” Willas thinks back on it, when Margaery said as much.

Pointing out that a lady of such high esteem under her father's eye would earn just as much as any natural born child. For she was allowed to stay in Winterfell and grow among her family. It would not surprise her if she were host to finer jewelry than Margaery herself.

And that pushed out any possibility of giving her something decorative, for if she adorned jewelry, she wore gowns worthy of a lady as well already. Willas huffs, pushing back from the fence in irritation.

It is not his betrothal to her that bothers him exactly, of course he expected this even if he thought it would be to another, it is the fact that he received no warning. It had been finalized long before he knew the girl existed. If he had some time, was able to write this lady Stark, he might have found same predetermined bond with her.

Only now he is left in the dark, unable to ensure a comfortable arrival for the future lady of Highgarden. His future wife…

How was he to go about this? Be calm and hope for the best? That last time he did that he lost his leg, he would like to remain intact this time. Yet this is no tournament, this is a woman, not a lance aimed at his heart.

Nor his leg.

“Well, to cheer you up,” Garlan says, “Lysanna Stark is known as one of the most lovely lady’s in the North. Some compare her to a Springs day, and others to the wilderness of the North.” Willas stares at his brother, half a smile on his face. Leave it to Garlan to stumble over words as he does his feet.

He has heard it all, especially from Margaery. If he did not know better he might say she is annoyed with the intervention of a new lady joining their quaint, little family. Not that he would ever voice it.

That, or they feel guilty he must wed a once bastard. Such a low arrangement must be cause for quite a stir among the nobles and smallfolk alike.  
  
Backing away from the fence he leaves the both of them with his thanks. He had much to think on.

 

* * *

 

He is held up in his chamber, reading over the history of the Wall, a gift from Margaery, when his mother comes bursting through the door.

Willas locks up, jumping if he could, gawking at his mother in surprise. Tall and proud and lovely as ever she glides her way towards Willas, a soft smile laced across her lips. He might ask what it is she is doing in his chamber, but he can guess on his own.

She opens her mouth as to speak, stops, and tilts her head at the book in his hand. She shifts and what his mother might have planned to mention has dissipated from memory.

“What are you reading?” She questions, coming to stand by his side. While a demure lady she can be quite open behind closed doors, given enough wine, and judging from the glass in hand he knows why she acts as such.

He hopes grandmother hadn’t offered too much. The both can become quite a handful without supervision and a cabinet. Willas adores his mother, however prefers she remain tactful during midday.

It is not as if it is his mother’s fault, given that a simple glass can create a bit of stir in her. And luckily for him she hasn’t even finished it. Which means her bounds of courage are still tightly knit.

With this knowledge he takes the glass from her grasp before she can refute. Setting it down beside him he says “The Wall.” His tone bored. You would think something as old and mysterious as the Wall would hold interesting tales.

And this book should be custom to it, yet it seemed Margaery’s goal had been to put him to sleep. This is merely a guess at how it was built. Whether by Bran the Builder, giants, or even the Others.

“The Wall?” She asks. “Why not the tales of great Northern Kings or she-wolves? It is what the North is known for, I suppose other than the Wall and those who sit atop it, that is.” Bracing a hand on his shoulder he shrugs.

Flipping a page he licks his lips. “It is a gift from my sweet sister, that’s why.” At this Alerie laughs, it is joyful and free, and pulls at his arm.

“Well, either way, I will not allow my eldest to coop himself inside his room all day.” She scolds, or her best attempt at it in her jolly state.  
  
Luckily, Willas captures his cane before he begins to stagger. She walks at an easing pace, leading them both to the gardens in content silence. It does not take him off guard when they arrive within range of the water bed, knowing how much she adores the lilies.

While strolling, Willas does what any son must, and picks a ripe lily for his mother. She sends him a wondrous simper as he hands it to her. Willas would be lying if he said he did not prefer his mother over his father.

But a lie mustn't be told. He must always claim the ladder, no matter the distaste it brings him. Alerie’s eyes spur into a glimmer, much like Garlan’s always do, and she leans her head into his shoulder.

Smelling the flower a moment longer than necessary she glances up at him. “Are you nervous?” Willas assumes she must mean of what everyone speaks of now. The momentous ties being forged between house Stark and Tyrell.

Willas does not really know what he feels anymore. It is not anger, the sort that lasts a brief time, or confusion and annoyance. More so along the lines of acceptance. There are many emotions blurring a haze through him, none make an impression.

So he simply shrugs. “I don’t feel anything.” His mother is the one who looks befuddled, stopping the both of them in response.

“Nothing?” He nods, staring ahead at the encumbrance of rose bushes ahead. Pushing ahead she sighs. “There is nothing on your mind?” At this he frowns, it is subdued, hidden beneath the mask he’s worn for leisure around grandmother and Margaery, and of course father.

However, even as his mother should be the exception, he cannot find it in himself to loosen the charade. “I don’t know her, nothing of her values or her interests, by the Seven Hells I do not even have a gift for her yet. I know this to be custom, but I cannot shake the feeling she will despise me for this.” Even he hadn’t realized he felt like this, not until the weight he’s had since the news came upon him lifts.

Alerie gleams. “My sweet boy, I assure you, everything will be alright.” Willas gives her an incredulous look. She snickers when she adds “Be dear to her, my son, I know this was unexpected. In many ways it was for me as well. But you must understand,” Alerie pauses, stopping the both of them, “She is just as frightened, if not more.” Willas remains silent.

He knows this. Very much so he tries to understand. He just does not know how to bring her solace once she arrives. He has nothing to bound her to this land other than an agreement and hope she will be kind rather than torrid.

Willas would have had hoped to get to know her, but he does not get that sort of luxury. He is stuck with the fallacy of hope. That she may accept him in time without any previous knowledge of his person as well.

For so long he had yearned for someone to share his future with, someone who would love this land just as much as he. Willas cannot foresee how he can do that now with a Northern bride. One of dirtied blood. Willas has tried to ignore it. Perhaps he is still processing whom is to be his wife.

But now it sinks in, just a little more than it has in the past. Say what you will of her new name, she is still a bastard, and while he does his best to avoid that title it still stings. Willas is to wed a half-blood, and from what rumors sprout from the common folk and nobles alike, it is nothing good.

Willas is willing to give the benefit of the doubt, for he has met Oberyn’s children, and none act in such a horrid manner as the people would like him to believe. There is simply nothing he can do to dispel this arrangement either. Willas accepts what is to come, and while he finds it distasteful in the least, she is still to be his wife. And he must treat her with respect.

He can only hope that this Lysanna does not bring gossip to truth in her arrival.

The lord almost responds when his mother cuts in. “If you worry, simply remind yourself she does to. This is no strategy, do as what a lord Tyrell must.” Willas studies his mother, befuddled but enraptured.

“And what is that?” He questions.

Alerie simpers. “Create a garden in her name, as the Tyrell lords did long ago, no concern will lay thereafter. Such beauty is sure to settle her, if only a little. This is a curious place to a Northern girl, and while we may be host to Weirwood, she will have nothing but the heat and a stranger's company.” Willas near snickers at the thought.

There is no more space for such tradition, lest he wishes to ruin another for his future bride. His mother must know this? It is not that simple, he expects his mother knows more so than he could possibly right now.

It confuses him greatly. “We do not have a lot to do so, mother, surely you know this? It has come to mind but it is impossible, ruining another’s garden is ruining a lady’s name. As is tradition.” He exclaims.

Alerie pats his arm with a loving squeeze. “Your grandmother offered her own.” Willas freezes, eyes widening as the sentence comes to make sense.

“What?” Is all he can force out. His grandmother proffered? This seems to be a trap. She would never...Or would she?

His mother laughs something gentle and light. “You may reinvent what was once Olena’s namesake for your lady.” Alerie confirms. “She and I know how nervous you are, however,” She looks around, cautious, “I believe she is more worried about the girl conceiving rather than your comfort.” That made more sense, for both his mother’s half-drunkenness and the idea.

Mother and Olena must have spoken in great detail to come to such a proposition. It must by why she looked to him earlier in a ready state, however, sadly she forgot because of the change in subject. And of course, grandmother would wish for a great grandson, not a cold bed and an empty womb.

The image of the faceless bastard Stark girl, full with his child, it leaves him still. There are rare moments that he forgets she is to host a child inside her, a babe of the North and South. Times like these startle Willas.

He has shared his bed before, but not with the intention of planting his seed within the other. Will she even take to him, or despise Willas for giving her a babe? He has seen marriages grow unwilling, a lord despised by his lady wife. Deep inside he knows this to be his true fear, alongside how the people will react to such a betrothal. With a heavy inhale he reiterates his mother’s confidence.

Willas is left speechless still, but full, knowing now what he must do. For so long he pended on what to gift her, what he could possibly entertain a girl with such different values from his own. From someone with such different blood and morals. Even if she must hate him perhaps she will find sanctuary in a garden of her own?

Certainly a garden would soften their greetings as well? Warm him up to her and she him.

“Thank you.” He mutters, kissing his mother’s cheek with a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the introspection didn't bore all of you! Willas and Lysa should meet by chapter ten. But I make no promises. It may be earlier. Please let me know what you think, it would mean a great deal to me! Thank you for reading!


	4. A Fortune Told

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been extremely long since I last updated, I've been holding it off and along the way almost forgot. Thank you all for your patience, I do appreciate it, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Make of it as you will!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

Each day Winterfell grows further in its distance. It draws along the path with no remorse and leaves Lysanna barren.

Broken winds lashed out within the trees, a sickening heat illuminating from the gusts that licked at her skin. Despite its coarse path it still ran warm; thick bile rose within her throat, her stomach full yet empty somehow. 

She had found a patch far off from the main camp to rest of the trail, nestled within a small site and the tundra behind. Lysanna could not stand to communicate with any others who might have interest in her attention. They stared as well, as if she were an anomaly they could not process. Only her sisters and father looked upon her as average, a figure they saw every time the sun shone.

The rest however gawked as if she were an animal in need to be put down, or perhaps a whore in the waiting. It did not surprise her, it was inevitable to have the eyes of the nobles here. That did not stop her from wishing it were not the case.

Lysanna buries her head in her hands, frowning. It is night and the heat is still unbearable, and with the odd castings she’s received, it’s only been made worse. To think she would be comfortable with the whispering, the chuckling, all of it. 

Growing in Winterfell many would speak behind her back, or make certain she knew what they thought of her. Only when her father stood near did they act generous. At least they hid their malice. These Southerners make it obvious, murmuring their disgust in corners as if they were a cunning ‘bout of players. 

But it was heard within every direction she went. Lysanna wonders if they think they are truly sly, or are just numb to their own idiocy? Both these things in addition to where she is to be sent off has done nothing but make her irritable. Alongside theses nobles was a heat, an intangible ruse of warmth that nipped at her for pleasure.

Northern bred she was, for Lysanna was nowhere near accustomed to the feel of it. It made Tavel worse, and far more so when Lysanna would recall that this is to be her new home. Her future. This unbearable heat and a land she does not know.

If the old Gods were kind they would alleviate one of these pesky situations. Would they not? 

It takes no longer than a minute for it to cool, Lysanna stilling as a brush of ice cold air drags across her shoulders. Glancing skywards she finds no sign of clouds, only the stars glittering in their dusting black. 

Another gust clambers at her back in one broad stroke. Lysanna’s chest lifts under the breeze. Had the Gods really listened to her prayers? Had they recognized her pain and decided to proffer what they could? 

Lysanna might have smiled, might have simmered under the fire with a grateful simper, however she is caught in surprise when a gentle, unyielding voice flows from the forest. Lysanna turns towards the sound, gazing into the dark, though she finds nothing. Only what is to be expected. 

And yet it is unsettling, the way the hymn wavers behind mist and shadow, the crickets fading from the imbalance the tune poses. 

Who does this voice belong to? Where is it it coming from? It is quite odd to hear such a thing fall from a tundra as full as the Kings Wood. For an instant she can remember Old Nan’s tales of mythical creatures, fairies and witches, all whom grant your deepest desire. 

It is a fantasy, a lie, but she cannot help the pitter of her heart at the thought of it. For the wind does not sing, only a body with a soul may. 

Lysanna stands without thought, curiosity getting the better of her. Ghost emits a low whine but follows nonetheless, even as she has breached the thicket of greenery before she has had time to pend on it. The sound is beautiful, in it’s own way, it calls to her- just as the cold does, weaving throughout the bristles and leaves. 

The closer she gets to the voice the more glacial it becomes, a fog lifts from the ground, the silence surrounding the whimsical melody deafening. And the faintest call of her name sends a layer of goose flesh down her body, it summons her with great speed, Lysanna tripping over her own two feet in search of it’s origins. 

It is not long until she happens upon a small fire, alongside it a caravan painted in fabric, beads, gems and feathers. Off to it’s side a steed as dark as obsidian, it’s eyes glinting in blood; Lysanna does not have the courage to pay it any attention, and only thinks it odd. 

Pitted before the small site Lysanna feels a pool of regret sink into her stomach, tight and unwavering. The fire is a blaze, licking outwards until she must take a step back. The wagon is barred with a tent of ebony, emblazoned in outrageous colors. Finally taking in her surroundings Lysanna pouts. 

Ghost whines once again, unnaturally vocal for the pup, and Lysanna knows what she has done is wrong. Perhaps it is time to return to camp rather than wait for what is to come? 

A boney hand catches her forearm, Lysanna curling inwards and pulling back in return. She spins in a stricken horror, ready to run. 

Lysanna near bumps an old, hunched woman. She smiles, rotten teeth shining in the firelight. The woman wore a cotton cloak, fur husked at the tip of the hood that laid atop her head, dull grey hair peaking out from it’s depths. 

“You found me.” The old crone whispers, her smirk widening. Lysanna trembles under the statement. “Would you like to hear your fortune, child?” 

The Old Gods are cackling from above, their little trick having paid well; Lysanna can only whither away inside. 

Ghost’s nose taps at her fingertips, awakening her from the dream she walked from within, and shakes her head. “No.” Is all she can mutter. 

“I can present you the answers you in which you ache- the answers your doubts and Gods have denied you.” 

Lysanna shivers, folding her arms over her chest in doubt. “I do not know-” 

“Come,” The small, old woman croons, “You have nothing to fear.” 

Another tug, Lysanna denies the direction she attempts to lead. “I have no fortune of worth.” Lysanna says. It is a fool's mistake to listen to such tales, a bastard knows this all too well. 

The crone lifts a thin, fading brow. “Not of worth?” she hobbles forward, hand gripping Lysanna’s wrist with a sickening burn. “I know you fear your betrothal to the lord of thorns, that you fear he will be a poor husband.” 

Lysanna gapes down at the woman, brows knit in two parts terror and one part dubiety. “How did you know that?” Lysanna inquires. 

“I am Maggy the Frog of Lannisport. I see everything.” 

The tell is tiring, Lysanna frowning, her throat tied and dry. Old Nan spoke of her once, of her deeds that brought wrath and regret to those who sought her out. 

“Come, I can give you the answers that you seek.” Lysanna’s will to run away had grown, to return to camp and find her father, instead she walked behind the woman. Each step felt closer to her demise. 

She entered the caravan through the flap of the tent, rising as the wheeled contraption demanded. Inside she is stunned with the heavy scent of spices, citrus, and something unfamiliar to her. Candles blazed, small and large alike pooling wax on the small shelfs. A small, circular table sat in the center, just before where Lysanna assumes the woman sleeps. 

“Here,” Maggy states, pointing to a cushion at the end of the table “sit.” Lysanna listens, shivering despite the considerable warmth. 

Maggy stumbles through the small space before grabbing something wrapped in red Dornish silk. She sits down across from Lysanna then, unsheathing the mystery. Inside lay a needle, black and foreboding.

“Prick your finger with it, child.” Lysanna looks between her and the needle, eyes wide. 

“What,” Lysanna gasps. “Why would I do that?” 

Maggy snorts something ridiculous under her breath. “It is your price.” 

“I thought you would prefer-”

“A Kings gold?” She shakes her head, a sour twist laminating her expression. “Deeds are paid in blood, my dear, now do as I told you.” It is hard to think clearly, Lysanna moving without her own attempt. 

However, she is uncertain whether or not this is her subconscious or the woman before her. Did she truly want to know anything? What if she were to fail or live in a future of constant concern? With a huff she stutters in her ministrations, if she wanted to prepare herself, this seemed the only way to do it- 

As most bastards, let alone women, do not have the charity of men. If Willas Tyrell were horrid, she would prefer knowledge that allows her protection, rather than her finding out in an unwilling position. 

Lysanna gawks at it aimlessly, until she sheathes her reserve and takes hold of it, dabbing the prick into her pointer finger with a sharp twinge. Lysanna hisses, dropping the needle on the table.  The old hag is much faster than Lysanna anticipated, tugging her finger forward and sucking at the blood there. In shock, Lysanna yanks back, disgust rimming her frame. 

Maggy sat in stone, face screwed in concentration before snapping open. Lysanna is presented with two eyes of crimson and onyx, misshapen and worn with age. Taken aback the bastard rears, pushing until her hand brushes Ghost. 

Lysanna cannot leave before she speaks, as tremulous as winter winds and clashing boulders of the Northern hills. 

“Lysanna, perceived bastard Snow of Eddard Stark,” Lysanna holds herself, frozen, having never recalled sharing her name with the witch. “You wish to know the future of your betrothal.” It is no question but a fact. 

The lady could only sit still, allow the fear to drench her from head to toe. Outside, the wind shrieked Lysanna’s apprehension with rage and ice. The light within the tent dimmed and grew until it simmered, snapping at the cloth of the tent. 

The witch continued. “You will find no comfort South, you will despise your husband as you are sworn to him for life, as he is to you.

“Your maidenhead, falsely approved, will stay intact within the marriage bed long after you are wed," Maggy lingers, a thick ooze pouring from her ears slathered in her hair, "but you will birth children. Four to be precise.” 

The holes where her eyes sat glistened, shimmered within their confines of blood and tar. A dripping mess that poured down her cheeks; Lysanna could not tear herself away from her gaze. 

“Children of thorn they will be, as they are of winged wolves,” Maggy coughed, “and little by little will they grow about your skirts until you are consumed with madness- a pack made for the dead.” 

Lysanna opens her mouth to say something, anything, to make the witch aware that this was enough, but her tongue in caught as Maggy keeps on “More, there is more,” the crone mutters in despair, “A crown swept of blood and bones, lordlings and ladies confined to quick sand awaiting their heir.” 

This has nothing to do with Willas Tyrell; Lysanna can hardly deny a woman as pale as snow, however, whose veins turn to the color of ice. 

“A golden stag will come to take the honor you hold, the light you bring, a murmurs lion and the rotting petals will thrust doom upon your name, of all you love,” At this Lysanna shakes her head. 

“You must stop, I did not ask-” 

Maggy takes her by the wrist, wringing it until it burns Lysanna calls out, Ghost growling out into the night. “Dragons of old have returned, stars of blood will pour from the sky, a crown of stardust will rest upon your head- Merciless you will be, drained of compassion in the ash of your loss.

“You are not what he wanted, but needed, and now the drums beat of war to bloody the land in the name of Fire and Blood; of Fire and Ice, forewarned of a Godless death's return; The long night awaits, child, it awaits for doom.”

Lysanna wriggles free, the saggy crone cackling aloud, breathless. The ooze that leaves the witch's eyes has painted her with the fear Lysanna feels. Her madness entangles in Lysanna’s ears as she stands, scrunching her skirts and pushing Ghost out the tents flap.

“Oh, my little winged wolf!” She sings into the moonlight, a sound so joyous it makes Lysanna ill “trust only the flower who gives you seed!”

Lysanna stumbles out of the caravan, tears in her eyes not yet shed, she sprints across the field until she burns in the cold.

She has never known fear like this, only in her nightmares, where the dead awoke and the beast of old entrapped her forever in the depths the Wall.

She must find father. She must find comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is not only welcomed, it is love! Please let me know what you thought, I know I could maybe revisit it, but for now I am content with the chapter. Also, theories, tell me your theories!


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